


we make it up as we go along

by Anonymous



Category: Fandom (Anthropomorphic), Fandomstuck - Fandom
Genre: Crossposted by request (kind of), F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:39:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her initial response was panic. Bright as a bell ringing clear on a winter night. But fortunately, panic around Debbie had become rather routine in its frequency, and though she could not quite think around the violent pounding in her chest and the slight twitch that had developed in her left hand, they were at least familiar stumbling blocks.</p><p>But what other reaction could she hope to have, staring into formless black eyes, half hooded and glittering darkly, as familiar lips and void formed utterly unexpected words? “Fuck me. Hard.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we make it up as we go along

[desert-bluffs-fandom](http://desert-bluffs-fandom.tumblr.com/post/60491529357/my-muse-pins-yours-against-the-wall-and-whispers-fuck)

> My muse pins yours against the wall and whispers “fuck me hard” in their ear. What does your muse do?

Her initial response was panic. Bright as a bell ringing clear on a winter night. But fortunately, panic around Debbie had become rather routine in its frequency, and though she could not quite think around the violent pounding in her chest and the slight twitch that had developed in her left hand, they were at least familiar stumbling blocks.

She noticed fuzzily that Debbie was warm, which shouldn’t have been possible. Obviously, she was having some kind of fever or attack or something. Obviously.

But close quarters, the cage of Debbie’s slender arms blocking her in against the wall, stopped that thought from making its logical journey to the Land of Beds and Thermometers.

Debbie was only barely shorter than her, most of the time. But Dark had seen her height shift, subtly. Usually, she got smaller when she was frightened, making less of a target of herself. But now, Dark was forced to cant her gaze up to meet formless black eyes, half hooded and glittering darkly. “Fuck me. Hard.”

_Oh._

Well, that made a certain sort of sense, in the base of Dark’s skull. Debbie had been by far the more forward of the two of them, for all that they shared a general sense of reticence, Debbie for fear of sending Dark into a panic again, and Dark for fear of making an ass of herself in front of one of perhaps three people in the world whose opinions held any weight in her head.

But this seemed sudden and alarming, and she hadn’t even found a suitable dead zone, and Debbie would almost certainly not want any part of her once she’d been dragged through a void that shouldn’t exist and had her soul torn out slowly and cruelly.

The vague awareness of Norwich in the back of her mind, just enough to tell her that he wasn’t dead, wasn’t in great pain, shot her through with guilt. But the guilt curled in on itself in a practised way, hardening into an angry resolve.

It was enough to make her fingers steady as she brought her hands up to fan around Debbie’s pale neck, reading a pulse that beat in a foreign rhythm of threes instead of twos.

"I believe something could be arranged."

There was a moment, fluttery brief, where terror slipped into her throat as the lacing on the back of her dress was nimbly sorted but hands that were as familiar as the sensation was foreign. She did not like the way she looked without her precious clothes, without the bodice that made breathing difficult in exchange for making her look less like a little boy with his eye poked out.

But the way Debbie stared, like she had forgotten than blinking was a basic human trait, like it was optional for her and she had decided to forgo it, left her blushing furiously, but peeling away the panels of silk and coutil all the same.

As it always did when the compression disappeared, her overskirt fell whispering to the ground. Her ribs expanded, drawing in her first full breath in hours, and helping the malleable medium of her flesh return to its more natural shape, shifting along subtle courses into the angular lines that left her feeling loathsomely square, neither forced waist nor false bust now.

It felt cold and exposed in the way she imagined feeling someone touching your intestines must. A pressure and wrongness that couldn’t be denied, even if the nerve endings lacked pain receptors.

But the dozen arguments explaining away her archaic body modification died out at the touch of warm fingers, tracing along the tingling, sensitive lines the bones had driven into the meat of her sides, and the breathless look of delight plastered over Debbie’s expression for the brief moment before lips met her own.

It was oil-sticky with the gloss and tint Dark hid her lips behind each morning, sliding in strange ways, and there was a tightness in Debbie’s mouth that suggested she might still be grinning. It was nothing like a countless quantity of old and novel tales had promised her first kiss with someone she liked would be.

It was uncomfortable and awkward and even if it no doubt would have its charms without layers of greasy lipcolor between them, it was beginning to maker her anxious with the lack of anything resembling enjoyment. But, she had killed dozens and would kill more. She would happily rend entire planets in half for this girl, and search every acre of land in a session that verged on the infinite, new Lands generating every day, even eight months after she had arrived, just to fulfill a request better left unmet.

She would hardly let herself be put paid by a simple kiss.

Her skull cracked against the wall as she snapped back, wondering vaguely when she had ever even arched forward, but grateful, since it gave her room to manoeuvre her lips to more familiar territories, peppering a trail of coaldust and gloss along the line of Debbie’s jaw, half guesswork, half remembered tips from ten thousand pornographic texts read in her free time.

She might have doubted it entirely, had the fingers digging fresh lines against the rapidly clearing marks of her corset not begun tracing new courses, one moving upwards to palm at her breast and the other tracing studiously at the waist of her glittering leggings, tickling enough that she gasped, voice bubbling with breathless laughter as she abandoned her task and swatted the interloping fingers clear.

"If you can’t keep your hands to yourself, I will have to take them away from you." The arch of her good eyebrow added to the joke, but the idea was there. Tempting. A way for her to retain some semblance of control over the proceedings, which even as they were a delight, threatened to make of vomit the thin bile of terror.

Instead, she pulled Debbie’s other wrist away as well, gripping them tight in hands trained to hold a knife through slick blood and resistant bone, offering no real chance at escape.

"Oh dear, what’ll I ever do?" Came Debbie’s response, her voice run ragged around the edges in a peculiar sort of way that finally set a smokey warmth running somewhere between Dark’s shoulders. The fear was still there, would almost certainly be there throughout the proceedings, but it would prove manageable. That was clear now.

"I don’t think you’ve ever seen my bedroom," she said, only aware of the wide grin on her face after it drew her hard E’s out peculiarly. "I wonder if I could carry you there?" Debbie giggled and shook her head, perfectly pinned curls bouncing furiously. "Fair enough, next time then."

It was a familiar trek, past the kitchen, through the sitting room, second door on the right. But aside from herself and Norwich, only one person had ever been in there, and it was to keep her from trying for her own life a second time.

This was a very different task entirely, and it made even the trackworn carpet of the hallway seen utterly new, as she dragged Debbie like an excited gradeschooler, clinging to her wrist no doubt far too tightly. Debbie seemed to neither notice or care, more interested in huffing half a laugh as the flourishing bow Dark used to open the door and usher her in, utterly incongruous with her half dressed, thoroughly frazzled look.

It was much the same as the rest of the house, decorated in brocades and polished woods, though where the sitting room had been crimson and silvery ash wood, this was very obviously the girl in yellow’s sanctuary, everything from golden cherry panelling to the brassy silk-satin walls with embossed patterns that shimmered where the light hit. Striated hardwood floors of teak, that had been the primary reason for the survival of the bedroom in the days of algae, were covered in tiny throw rugs and welcome mats in shades of buttercream and sunflower.

And of course, between the bookshelves, opposite the desk, was her bed, in all its ridiculous wrought iron glory, piled high with far too many quilts in a state of constant disarray, pillows tossed haphazardly here and there, sometimes dripping onto the floor.

Now that they were no longer a sanitation risk, it was possible Dark had gone a bit overboard.

She might have worried about that too, save that the warmth between her shoulder blades made her brazen. She was half naked with a girl she could one day love, here of her own volition. Both of them.

The state of her bedclothes was hardly at the forefront of her mind, as she swiftly kicked out Debbie’s ankles from beneath her, sweeping her up into a bridal carry that she staggered under the weight of, unused to hauling more than a few pounds of anything. But it was only a few feet to the bed, and they fell into the quilts in a ridiculous tangle, still giddy with laughter.

"This is the absolute most absurd thing I have ever done, you know," Dark huffed out between peals, and whatever response Debbie had planned fell away in the breaking groan drawn out by teeth and lips attacking the lowest space of her neck.

She had heard from every imaginable party that if you tried hard enough, you could leave a bruisey purple mark, and bruises were something Dark could appreciate. But what’s more, they could be left without causing pain.

Her intent focus broke with a hiccuping gasp at the delicate brush of sharp nails across her nipples, which in her personal experience had mostly just been bits of skin that were tender enough to hurt.

Obviously she had been missing out.

The thing about living ones life in a corset was, when finally loosed from the thing, she usually slept. Fluidity of movement was something reserved for her arms and legs, not her spine. So as she curved into the touch, she was overly aware of every fragment of the motion, of the way her body bent towards Debbie’s hands magnetically, and it shot the simmering back burned terror through with new resolve, the way this girl who she barely knew, and yet who should trusted enough to follow into a bedroom on a whim- to lead into a bedroom on the air of three words and a vengeant kiss, could mould her like magnets warping the path of ions.  
  
Like dæmons pulling at the trails of Dust.  
  
It was confusing and alarming, to think she could be so easily manipulated, and the fact that Debbie was clearly not playing the manipulator only made it more frightening. Accidents could happen like this.  
  
And for a moment, she wanted to stop, to turn her, her what? Friend? Acquaintance? Matesprit? To turn Debbie out of her home with furious apologies and the promises of another day.  
  
But the heat behind her shoulders, the one that had crawled its way over every inch of her skin at the delicate graze of nail on taut flesh, suggested that she would rather choke on her own tongue than actually turn aside something she had wanted on more levels she cared to examine for so many years, not when it was presented freely by someone worth taking from.  
  
Debbie was staring at her, with those seamless eyes that suggested many things, not the least of which were emptiness and death and falling forever, all appropriate to the moment really. There was always a shine over the black, water under starlight. But it warbled dangerously, shifting under real water, and Dark realized what her face must look like. The terror that must have been written over every pore, not unlike it had been when she had fainted only a few dozen feet away, no doubt identical to the fight or flight mask of her brows and teeth when she had woken up to the familiar scent of blood in utterly unknown surroundings with only the cool weight of a stranger’s body beside her.  
  
Debbie wasn’t a stranger now, though. Wouldn’t be a stranger ever again.  
  
She was a small and precious thing worth protecting, a golden treasure, the only one worth belonging in the heart and hoard of a dragon dæmoned woman. She had skinned an Anon alive once for threatening to make Debbie cry.  
  
She would not let it happen here, by her own hand, or face, as it were. The smile tasted fake against her teeth, but it was a well polished falsehood, tweaked gently throughout the years. Not the eyeless smirk she saved for those about to be disembowelled, nor the mocking teeth baring grin that came part and parcel with her interactions with most of the idiotic masses.  
  
This was a softer thing, reserved only, before now, for bringing comfort to Norwich when he cried out in the empty nights for fear of being trapped alone for an eternity, with barely even Dark for company. Something meant to bring about comfort even when there was none.  
  
And Debbie, who was too ingenuous by half and had decided, for whatever ungodly reason, to place her trust over Dark’s shoulders, seemed as effortlessly taken by it as Norwich had been all her life, the last three months excluded.  
  
"Would you like to see a trick," The smile shifted subtly, something a little closer to the predatory promise that drew itself up around the Anons, though lacking the bite. It seemed, to Dark, the most unbelievably stupid line imaginable, given the fact that she was still crushing her half non-existent breasts into Debbie’s palms and they were effectively staring at eachother like skittish colts about to dash for the barn.  
  
But it made do, and Debbie nodded, sending her tightly styled curls shifting en masse.   
  
It was not a trick Dark had ever tried before, when would she have had need? But it couldn’t be that hard. Even the weird, formless intuition of the Blight suggested it was tiresomely simple to do. So, she unfocused her eyes, and pinched a small fold of the bright cotton of Debbie’s dress between two fingers, before letting it slide free, and gesturing as though she were tossing something vaguely towards her shoulder.  
  
And that was all it took, to her disproportionate pride, to sent the dress blinking out of existence, revealing incongruously purple underclothes, though just as frilly and lacy as she had most certainly not imagined the one time she might ever have had cause to do that sort of imagining.  
  
And then Debbie was laughing like a loon, high and breathless and ridiculous, and Dark could feel the way the laughter shook her skin and clenched her stomach, because that was her hand, there, on Debbie’s waist.  
  
"Stop that," she reprimanded, though already her own words came out tight with the strain of refusing to be seduced by the siren song of falling into peals of her own. Not again. Wasn’t there business they needed to be attending to, here? Not that there had been much of a plan, but she was fairly certain there had been a goal. "It was a great trick, you can just hush!"  
  
Debbie stuck out her tongue, briefly, and Dark found herself possessed of the most inexplicable and frankly disgusting urge to lick it. Fortunately, it was gone as quick as it came, replaced with, “Why don’t you make me?”  
  
And if that wasn’t the oldest line in at least four books, she would eat her own pants, spun gold floss and all. But, the fact was that it gave her something to do, and something she knew what to do with, at lest conceptually.  
  
Whether it was the fact of her own instigation, or simply the way most of her gloss and lipstick had been worn off in marring coalgrey tracks along Debbie’s jaw and neckline by now, this time the kiss was much less gut wrenching. Still absurd, of course, because it was merely the business of mashing mouths together and seeing what happened, but she was starting to understand the appeal.  
  
All the moreso when Debbie’s teeth caught at her lower lip in a way that had exactly no business being that interesting. How many times had she bitten her own lip in annoyance or anxiety? What made it so different now? Being someone else’s teeth, in the same way as tickling? Or was it some learned skill of Debbie’s, in the way they rolled and tugged? Or perhaps merely the fact of the teeth belonging to Debbie at all?  
  
The high, confused warble caught low in Dark’s throat barely registered in her own ears, but it was enough to loose one Debbie’s hands from where they had been frozen on Dark’s chest, one sliding low on her waist to diligently explore the topline of her glittery leggings, and the other wrapping thin fingers around Dark’s wrist, gently pulling it to rest on the violet cotton of her bra.  
  
Utterly overwhelmed by the suggestions of entirely too many fingers wandering entirely too many places, and with the weird freedom of waist that came with being awake and undressed at the same time, Dark twisted away from the hand tracing her hip, and from the admittedly delirious kiss, of which she had grown inordinately fond in the matter of moments since it had started up again.  
  
If this entire thing was to keep happening, then she needed to think, and thinking would be best managed by not letting herself be distracted further.  
  
Debbie had that worried look again, not teary, but wary, and on what she truly hoped was a sound hypothesis, Dark placed her hands on Debbie’s shoulders, pushing her further back into the mass of quilts, and tried for a smile. Her face seemed slow to react to her cues, and no doubt the end result was dopey and regrettable, but well within excusable margins, as she took in the facts before her.  
  
First, there was the brief, guilty realization that she was terribly jealous of the figure Debbie made on her bed. Conventionally attractive in every way, blonde hair, curved figure, delicate build, pale, smooth skin. Dark had spent many an hour wishing she had a comparable body.  
  
Though, a moment later, moving her hands to rest delicately on Debbie’s neck, a gesture that would have sent plenty of people tense with fear, and yet, only had Debbie’s eyes fluttering shut and fingers twitching with some restrained gesture or another, Dark realized to her mild horror that she did have this body. That she could do whatever she liked with it, and Debbie would probably smile all through it.  
  
What an alarming amount of power to just be handed over openly.  
  
The second fact was that Debbie contrasted terribly with everything in the room, standing out against the amber and umber quilts, the rich wooden fixtures and dark accents like a glowstone, which Dark suspected she might try to be poetic about later. Something about cream and seal, tanzanite and tourmaline. Perhaps a pair of contrasting quartz set in the whorls of damascus steel.  
  
The overall effect was actually rather unfortunate, making her look washed out and mismatched, and that in itself was lucky. It made her look approachable and fallible and much less like a manic pixie dropped from the clouds to make Dark re-evaluate the nature of her lifestyle.  
  
The third was that she was small, which Dark had known before. But, as she cast one leg over Debbie’s thighs, and settled saddle like over her legs, it became imperative.  
  
Because she could just keep her there, keep her down and limited and she didn’t have to worry. Debbie had the most terrible ability to convince her into things that should be openly and completely ignored. But Dark didn’t have to go along with any of it. And she could make her stance clear, now, with knees balanced over Debbie’s wrists, holding her steady beneath her own barely greater weight, and significantly denser musculature.  
  
"You said you. You um." Oh right. The speaking thing. That would need to be addressed. And head on, because if she couldn’t even speak about it properly, then it would be better for everyone involved if she closed shop and sent Debbie home for the evening. "You said you wanted me to fuck you, and I will, I mean. I’m going to. Probably not very, well, never mind that. The thing is, if I do that, you. You can’t. I am not prepared psychologically to involve someone else in my own body’s sexual… incursions. So. I can do whatever you like to you, but if you want to do whatever I like to me, then I’m very sorry but. But what I would like is for you to not. Please."

She wanted to continue, burning wit the awareness that those words were hardly enough to convey anything, but all that came out was a shuddering breath, warped by the tension in her chest, and wound tighter by the unreadable expression of Debbie’s face.

Debbie was many things, but emotionally closed off was hardly one of them. It was, in fact, the least of them. The girl had thus far shown no grasp whatsoever of when reining in ones gut responses to things might be appropriate and that could mean only that she didn’t know what to feel either.

Dark shifted awkwardly, leaning her eight back and freeing Debbie’s wrists, canting to one side with the intention of sliding off her lap, off the bed, ideally off the face of the planet.

"Do you-" Came the blonde’s voice, soft and high, with false airs of ease. "Do you not want to?"

This seemed like the sort of conversation that really should have been had before now.

"Of course I do, but I _can’t_ just,” Dark choked on her own stutters, and buried her face beneath her own palms, eyes screwed shut and shaking with an overwhelming sense of humiliation, because things had been going very well, but she just _couldn’t_ let someone else touch her like that, she couldn’t, it wouldn’t work, she could feel that with toxic certainty.

It would ruin things. Everything, really.

But this time, when a hand settled on the curve of her hips, it did not wander where it hadn’t been invited, and she settled in turn, managing to steal a glance through knitted fingers and one good eye.

"All right, it’s fine, you don’t have to hide, silly!" Debbie said, as lilting and unconcerned as ever, and Dark let her pry their hands away from her face, came out of hiding still wrecked with the dredges of fear and embarrassment and the paralytic sting of ignorance unsheathed, and Debbie was smiling again.

Neither manic nor predatory. Just the safe, simple expression she had been always wearing on that first day, in the kitchen with cheap tea that never got drunk, and Dark realized she has no idea how to make any sort of transition away from that locked up mess, but it didn’t especially matter, because ultimately, she was right when she had been thinking about ropes and knives and cutting off limbs: Debbie wouldn’t care at all, what she did, as long as it was done in good faith.

It wasn’t as frightening a thought, the third time around.

But that didn’t mean she was precisely brimming with resolve, either, and she had already made enough of an ass of herself that she thought against simply dashing for what she assumed to be the theoretical finish line.

Instead she limned her fingers underneath the stiff wire of Debbie’s bra, ruffling the trim and sliding it upwards, just enough to show the curvature of the flesh beneath it. Of course, she could have done the same thing as before, with the dress, it wouldn’t have presented a challenge. But therein laid the problem: it would be far too fast. It might send her pin wheeling towards the cliff’s edge again.

And there was a little part of her that squirmed gleefully at the way Debbie arched under her fingertips, seeking out something more than whispering grazes, like she might be doing something right, running soft tracing lines against unfamiliar territory.

Except that part, she realized slowly, as more of Debbie’s skin comes into view, as if there could be more of it, as if she wasn’t already drowning in some kind of luxurious pond of bared flesh, was the same part that crowed with delight when the Anons started begging her to stop in earnest, when they began to realize that their masks hadn’t saved them from her wrath. It was the part of her that delighted in torture, and it had no business here.

Not yet, not when initial paths were being forged.

So in the end, she did pull the bra away in a soundless pop of otherworldly technology, and watches with lidded curiosity the weight of her breasts swayed to either side without the stifling assistance of wires and cloth.

They should not have been attractive, effectively just lumps of superfluous fatty meat, but there was always something alluring about control for those who were so used to being on the hair’s breadth of a breakdown, and there was no denying that the reactions Debbie made when she kneaded fingers softly, then more firmly, into her shape of them, feeling the heavy texture and the tacky sheen of sweat she had not properly realized was even beginning to burn, qualified as a sort of control.

It was only after she had discovered the mix of light and coy and teasing, versus dark and heavy and provocative, that she even thought to try putting her mouth to skin again, and that was worth more than she would have guessed at.

Debbie’s skin had always been alien smooth, free of even the slightest blemish, save those peeking fragmented suggestions of inked on markings briefly glimpsed behind collar and hem. But here, as she drug  her tongue in broad, flat stripes, or stopped to suction living, ruddy marks in not quite the right shade of red, Dark was aware of softness and malleability, and again that warmth that didn’t match up with past evidence. Conscious of a trip-a-let heartbeat that she could almost taste, underneath the metallic tang of salt and skin and something that might be nickel though it has no reason to be.

And when she latched on to a pinkish nipple, intrigued by and laving curiously across the sharp change in texture, the tension and the creases taken in and set aside to sort for the future, Debbie yowled. A noise almost feline, and almost human, and distinctly not either, and the heat between her shoulder blades was gone, absolutely gone, replaced not with ice, but with fire, because _this_ was power over someone, and this was earned by action, not received as a gift, and this was control that she could feel slotting into the same place as other forms of control had done before.

It seemed suddenly very clear, what she could do and might do, should do, and last of all, but greatest, what she _would_ do, here, in a hill of too many blankets for two small bodies and the eternally even temperatures of an imaginary world.

It started with the easy trail of lips down the lines of a sharp waist, softer and softer until Debbie whined beneath her, and then brutal and unforgiving, teeth and tongue in shape nips along the swell of a hip, or heady suction over the sharp point of a jutting bone. Bodies had been her plaything for so long, though they were other bodies and other circumstances. But the knowledge held fast, places to touch, and how hard to run tooth or nail across them to ache but not cross into pain.

It was a delight, to rear back and take in the panting, twitching canvas she had made of this girl, whose skin welled up in inkpaint colors so easily, flushed an inhuman shade of pink, and dotted with blues and reds and on the edges of the darkest swells, even hints of their shared favorite jaundiced yellows.

But there was little time for study of that sort, with the way the air had grown cloying with soursweet scents like overripe fruit, and the begging cant to Debbie’s knitted brows.

She was speaking, almost certainly. Dark could see her lips, which were not usually quite so darkly flushed with blood, moving, but the only sounds that seemed to wring themselves out were little, half-formed things, almost words that died off every time deep brown fingers trailed here or there, digging or gliding or promising all manner of things that Dark probably could not hope to fulfil.

It was strange, to see the tense begging for sensation on someone else’s face, after having only had the feel of her own for comparison for an entirely lifetime, but it did not seem to share the bile and guilt that harassed her.

Instead, there was only a peculiar desperation that finally wound itself out into a dire spill of real words. “Please, _please,_ I said _now_ , don’t you remember that it’s already been ages oh, _please_.”

And for very much the first time, Dark found herself swayed by a beggar’s cries, and peeled away violet panties. Though, she had never truly grasped the texture of kindness, and was terribly, tauntingly slow about it.

But then, why rush? When had she ever had the chance to feel like she was leading the funeral procession of this unborn relationship?

This time, when she flung them over her shoulder, it was quite literally, and she hoped detachedly that they would end up somewhere utterly ridiculous, caught on the corner of a bookshelf or hanging off a sconce. Something appropriately parallel to how her unmarred skin and undine curves had looked so foreign in this space.

Though now, Dark supposed, she looked at least a little more like she belonged among the coffee and gold, with her bruises and her spinel hair, curls coming unravelled in a way that pleased Dark’s sense of symmetry, given the implication of a fray matched the coarser, irregularly tufted coils of darker jonquil between her legs. Almost the same colour as the glittering leggings around the thigh Dark used to bring her slender legs, crossed too tightly in a gesture Dark found herself familiar with, wide enough apart for a studious body to settle between.

The litany of begging had not stopped once it had begun, and Dark found herself rushing to suck the sweat salts from her fingers, too cautious by half, Debbie seemed to think, of the risk of burning pain.

Though perhaps she should not have worried at all. Personal experience had taught her of only the barest drip of moisture, not the hot-slick mess of mucous that could plausibly stain something, were it not utterly clear.

Eventually, though, Dark had to tune back in to the stream of words, in time to catch, “I’m not going to bite you or anything or maybe I will if you don’t just _plea-_ ”

The rest of it was wrung up in a broken groan, robbed of any semblance of language once again, and Dark refused to believe that she had chirped proudly in the back of her throat, though admittedly it seemed possible enough.

It was not, of course, because humans were not generally chirping creatures, but by the time an explanation was forthcoming she neither remembered not cared, too enraptured by the ridiculous wealth of sensation.

She had been right to wave off reciprocation, no matter what the ache low in her belly had to say about that, because it might have robbed her of the already limited awareness she had, for the soft, wet _heat_.

It was, she realized almost against her will, not unlike the feel of the space between muscle and organ meat, save that it was completely different. The contractions every time she so much as twitched a knuckle were there, and the temperature and pressure were much the same. But it was smoothed slick in a way blood and lymph could not achieve, and beneath the frictionless glide, if she curled her finger upwards like beckoning a confused child, she could feel two conflicting textures that both warranted further focus.

Another time, though, another time.

There would _be_ other times.

This was a different sort of study, with goals centered around the parallel tasks of “let’s see if we can make her cry after all,” and “I wonder how the inclusion of additional digits and stimulants would work out.”

They were not so much questions as foregone conclusions, but phrasing them inquisitively gave her something to focus on, as she began working her finger- and shortly after fingers- in earnest, comparing and contrasting gleefully the different sorts of spasms and exclamations she could draw out by using different patterns of focus.

Some made the legs trying so diligently to pin around her own waist go slack with sudden loss of coordination, and others drew everything, stomach, thighs, vaginal walls, into a taut, fractured sort of tension.

One of the less relevant hypotheses asked whether or not Debbie could be made to orgasm solely by this game of fingers tangling in soft, dark spaces, but it would have to wait for another day, in no small part because her shoulder was beginning to ache from all the unfamiliar motions.

It was only as she slid further back among the maze of covers, working her way into a more viable position, that the cold press of tiny talons along the line of her exposed back, and digging into the tense heat of her overworked arm, gave away the presence of the third party in the bedroom.

Were it anyone else, the sudden gesture might have made her panic, screeching and ready to draw blood. But Norwich deserved to be here, at least, party to this treachery, and besides, she could hardly convince herself to stop now, when Debbie had run her voice ragged and settled into an easier pattern of soft, breathy groans.

"Stop fucking thinking, you’re hopeless," he grumbled near silently into her ear, coiling his tail tightly around an aching bicep and compressing, easing the ache and putting aside the risk of cramp for a while longer. "Would it really kill you to focus for once?"

As first-words-spoken-in-months went they were probably not the best, but they were more than enough to uncurl the tight knot of constant worry hidden under too much analysis, enough to give her the fluid freedom to lean forward, resting her weight easily on one elbow, and slipping her free hand beneath the curve of Debbie’s ass to arch the entire angle of her hips up. That last thing anyone needed as for neck pains to make their appearance, after all.

The taste was not overly anything, really. Implications of acid and salt trapped in a watery protein base. The texture was alarming, but it dissolved readily in saliva, thank god, and the _results_ were more than worthwhile.

Norwich had the good sense not to squawk when a shifting calf threatened to crush his skull, instead slipping easily into the air and away again to whatever perch he had claimed as Debbie’s knees made their way over Dark’s shoulders, and they must look a ridiculous sight. Perhaps she could get him to describe the sheer level of absurdity to her tomorrow.

But that was the last thought she had to spare for voyeuristic dæmons and their games, focusing instead of determining which of the four major options available to her was the best choice.

Running a flattened tongue along the line of Debbie’s clit was easy enough, but somehow she suspected it would take longer than her wrist and arm would hold out at this new angle, so she switched easily to the most delicate graze of teeth, and immediately regretted it when Debbie bucked so furiously that it became wildly obvious that there wouldn’t be any way to manage it with out either restraints or some kind of grave harm.

Fair enough.

She tried for rapid, fluttery flicks of her tongue which if the sudden drop in Debbie’s high voice could be trusted, probably boded well, and given the pressure around her fingers, which did not so much fluctuate anymore as grow less and less forgiving in steps. But, curiosity was a dangerous beast, and for the sake of having tried them all, Dark suctioned her lips down tight, and drew in half a breath.

And for the first time, Debbie fell completely, utterly silent. The barest fleeting impression of fear sprinted through Dark’s mind, before common sense was back, and she was made aware of the bowstring tension of every muscle in Debbie’s legs, and the cascading roll of twitching around her fingers, which she left still and solid where they were, though she settled back into a folded sit, weirdly aware of both her  wet and almost certainly shiny chin, and her own still covered lower body.

But the awareness was dreamy and detached, much like the way she realized sunrise slowly that Debbie was mirroring her own ridiculously besotted smile.

There was no elegant way to wipe one’s chin face and hands clean of sexual congress, Dark suspected, so instead of trying to figure it out, she grabbed a fistful of quilt and dealt with it quickly rather than prettily.

"You should stay over." She added, behind the muffle of twill and batting. "It isn’t like its a small bed."

She felt safe enough in assuming Debbie’s nod to shimmy out of her leggings and the sensible panties beneath them and tuck herself in against the smaller girl’s side, revelling in the ridiculous cloud of misaligned curlicues that both their hair had transformed into.

"Maybe we can actually try to _drink_ our tea, later. What a novel thought.”


End file.
